Fire in the Rain

Standing over the steel guts of his car's exposed hood, Zamson scanned the metal parts in the engine bay beneath him. To some, a car's engine seemed like an impossibility made up of a complex mass of mystical machinery, a hunk of mechanical brain-teasers unfit for an average mind to make sense of, for they weren't skilled in the art of gears and motors.

In the case of Zamson Lovell, the realm of the automotive was a walk in the park. He replaced the spark plugs; first, a crucial engine component providing the spark that breathed life into an engine, then tweaked what was necessary to maintain the speed and performance that his car was most known for and feared.

It was how his ride earned the name Pandemona.

The garage boomed with music. A dark melody of solid bass fused with hardcore rap lyrics filled the bay area, almost hushing the mechanical sounds of Zamson tweaking his ride. Logan was soon to engage in a workout as he prepared his weight bench nearby. The rap beats hit with a rhythmical tune that coaxed Logan to nod his head to its rhythm.

A sudden beep alerted Zamson and Logan to someone barging through the door. The second the two realized that it was nobody serious, Zamson and Logan returned to their endeavors, humorously ignoring the importance of Shane arriving at an unusual time.

Shane sighed as he caught the two in their typical spots in the garage and neared Zamson without haste. "What the hell!" Shane's amusement danced in his voice as Zamson cleaned Pandemona’s engine. "You're still working on that thing?"

Zamson stood up with grimy clothes in hand. He attempted to remove what grease and grime stained his hands. The attempt was short-lived. "Gotta stay busy on what's important when not busy working the non-important."

"That non-important pays the bills." Shane glimpsed at Logan laid out on the weight bench, his giant dumbbells rising and falling. "But not for long," he looked back at Zamson, "Provided that you bite."

Zamson smirked. Shane couldn't fool him that easily. "I'm not interested in being your delivery boy this time."

Logan chimed in. "Count me out!"

Shane frowned. They shot him down before he could even get down to business. "Damn, you two be rude as f*ck, won't even give me a chance to lay it all out."

"Because we know what to expect," said Zamson. "Some ole bullsh*t."

"Ah." Shane waived a clever finger. "Some ole bullsh*t loaded with profit."

Zamson chuckled and shook his head. "Yeah, figured. Sorry, homie. Gonna have to pass."

"Forever," added Logan.

Their sudden disinterest tickled Shane. It wasn't the first time. Their reluctance would fade away with time, patience, and a few choice words to attract their attention; money sealed the deal, provided the payout was appealing enough.

"Real f*ckin' funny." Shane gave them a moment to calm down, turning about to wander the garage somewhat. He didn't stray too far from Zamson. "The last gigs were, as the righteous would say, prosperous, or were they not?" He threw his arms up, presenting the garage to them. "It landed you this glorious hideout for all your unconstitutional needs."

"You don't say?" Zamson replied. He didn't expect Shane to answer that. It would be foolish to do so, and the most Shane thing to do. "But your last gigs nearly got our d*cks stuffed in a casket."

"Nobody said they'd be easy," Shane calmly protested. Zamson and Logan went silent, mainly because Shane tried his best to keep a casual face of innocence for as brief as it lasted. "Okay. So, one of them was a little too hot."

Zamson smirked and shut Pandemona’s hood, then walked to the end of his garage. "F*ckin' what?" With an amused look on his face, he found the sink and twisted on the hot water faucet before soaping up to wash his hands. "A little too hot? Check your temperature. You straight took us halfway across the states with a d*mn corpse's head in the trunk of Pandemona!"

Shane coolly gestured a hand. "Just hearing you say her name like that always gives me the fuzzies. And that was a very wealthy collector who paid beyond top-dollar for that nasty-a** thing of a head," he added. "That alone has us set for life, but the gigs kept coming."

Zamson furrowed his brow. "What kept coming were the death priests that guarded that crypt."

"Wardens of a very important crypt." Shane persisted in a nonchalant stance as if Zamson's perspective on their prior adventures of running errands was overly dramatic, which they weren't, but Shane perceived otherwise. "The two of you took care of them just fine."

"We used you for bait in the end," Logan said.

Shane sighed. It was a bitter series of events, indeed. "Okay. It was your way of retaliating for a dangerous job, and I accepted that piece of vengeance with dignity."

"Should have killed you," said Logan. "Still trying to figure that out."

"So am I, bruh," replied Shane. "So am I." Evading the furthering of the subject that could leave a bad taste in his mouth, as well as the revisiting of memories he chose not to feed into, he shifted his attention to Zamson, who hardly ever said no to money. This was Shane's last shot at reeling them in. He never missed his shot. "Now. Willing to chill and hear me out on the next money grab—or no?"

***

"I have a job for you. One that's leagues better than your day gig."

Weed smoke exhaled from Zamson's nose. He studied Shane with a clear sign of amusement glinting in the calm of his eyes. "You said that already. What could be better than pulling forty hours a week for a corporation that gives not a sh*t about you?"

"Slinging d*ck," Logan replied.

Shane chuckled. Logan's filthy remark caught him off guard. "For real, though!"

"Slinging d*ck. You'd be amazed at what you can do when packing some serious heat. B*tches love it when you bust for them, too. Slap a price tag on it, and you'll be marketing meat like chicks selling feet by the pop."

Shane took a moment to think about Logan's words and made a face of understanding. Sex sells. Women were just as perverted as men and desired certain fetishes to be fulfilled. In the case of Logan’s words, masturbating for women.

Because selling pictures of their feet wouldn’t cut it.

That being said, Logan had a point. "Well, since you put it that way."

"Okay." Zamson sat back on the couch. His sudden ease showed interest. "What's the proposal? Sounds intriguing enough."

"It will keep you where you belong, in the streets. But get this: you work for keeps by playing for keeps. Nothing like before."

Logan didn't believe that for a minute. "Oh, really?"

Shane lifted his head with confidence; a smile on his lips sealed the look with flying colors. "Have I ever lied?"

Zamson and Logan exchanged looks.

Shane rolled his eyes. "Can never succeed with the likes of you two now, can I?"

Zamson resumed the subject. "Make it make sense."

Shane extended the blue envelope. Its decorative patterning begged Zamson to notice. "You're the fastest set of paws on the strip," said Shane as Zamson claimed the envelope. "The way you flow through the streets like greased lightning leaving b*tches in the dust or beneath your wheels. My guess: your last couple of races got you on watch by a potential sponsor."

Zamson opened the envelope and revealed a simple business card. Or, so it came off as looking simple. It was far from simple. The square piece was black, vantablack, the type of black that absorbed sunlight to nothing. There was no design to be found on its surface, front and back, nothing but black. A card of its kind only belonged to one vampyrial clan.

Zamson couldn't make sense of it, but he knew what that card meant. Everyone in the city, those like him, recognized that card. "The Hand of Ambrogio."

Logan snorted forth a cloud of weed smoke as he alarmingly sat up with the quickness. "Ambrogio?! What does Noctavion Vladimus want with us outrunners?"

"All I know is that when one receives that card," Shane shrugged, "they answer."